


your ghosts are real

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x10 coda, Coda, Episode: s12e10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "So, he lined them up, like an army, with a will to fight and the power to do so, responsibility and an eagerness to do right making their fingers tremble around the blades and knives they held."or: when castiel said to drink, he didn't plan on stopping after one.(title from "anachronism" by crywolf)





	

‘Let’s drink, and hope we can find a better way.’

Castiel had meant that, in every sense of the term, until the evening period had long since passed and both brothers had retired to their rooms.

Cas supposed he could wander, or work on finding Kelly; cook, or clean, or even  _ talk  _ to himself, for lack of a better option. Maybe climb into the Impala with the heating on full-blast and a selection of Dean’s favourite rock anthems drilling into the back of his skull.

But there were two crates of beer, an empty table, and a haunting silence that was so different to the screams he’d heard from those he’d fought with in the name of Heaven.

Cas tried to force himself to take one bottle, and one only, but the words of trust and promise caught in his mind and then in his throat. A lone bottle on the library table turned into two, then three, then six, and Cas couldn’t find the will to stop. He could rise from the chair but couldn’t imagine where he’d go; he had gotten so used to the silence of the past few hours that the crash of bottles in a bin would be a shock to the senses.

Castiel found himself with six drained beer bottles in front of him.

So, he lined them up, like an army, with a will to fight and the power to do so, responsibility and an eagerness to do right making their fingers tremble around the guns and knives they held. 

He named them, and the words came slipping off his tongue; Ishim first, then Benjamin, Mirabel, until he reached the last, named it  _ Castiel. _

Three of those he served with were dead. Two hadn’t communicated through angel radio since before the fall.

And there Cas stood, alone,  _ alive _ , while his brethren died with the words  _ weak  _ and  _ broken soldier  _ rolling off their tongue, directed toward him with ease.

When Dean and Sam complained about Ishim, disagreed with his words of disappointment and anger, Cas barely said a word, voice dying in his throat.

_ Sam, Dean,  _ Cas would’ve said with a tone to convey it all.  _ Don’t you know how soldiers are made? _

The words were still clear as day through his tenth bottle, his twelfth, angels all lined up and drained of morals, feeling,  _ life _ . Anna. Gabriel. Balthazar. Hannah. Samandriel. Uriel. Ezekiel. Constantine. 

His thirteenth was slammed down, the side cracking; Cas could still  _ feel,  _ as if Dean’s hand still lingered on his coat and Ishim’s hand gripped at his collar.

He got them killed; each slaughtered, each holy being tarnished and vessel left to die. That was blood on Cas’ hands, which were already tainted, disgusting, covered in the sins he’d committed in order to do what he deemed right.

Cas picked up one of the bottles by the neck.

_ No wings, no home,  _ Ishim had uttered with trained precision. A soldier who knew where and what to target, specified to make you click.  _ Just a ratty old coat, and two poorly-trained monkeys. _

The sound of glass hitting the wall and shattering wasn’t as loud as Cas previously estimated. He didn’t feel as much responsibility to clean up the shards. Perhaps the alcohol was kicking in after all, and Cas almost laughed as the next bottle - Mirabel - hit a bookcase.

Soon, the library was littered with glass; droplets of yellow and white flickered onto the walls and the roof as pieces reflected with the ceiling lights.

One last bottle stood on the table - himself, still alive, still here, still weak. When the rest of those he’d fought with had died, Cas stood there and did nothing, or was the cause.

Cas was no soldier, and yet found himself determined over the years to murder his brethren in the name of God.

He held the last bottle, his bottle, in his hand.

With one last thought -  _ and they all fall down -  _ Cas raised his hand, stepped forward with a grunt.

The bottle didn’t leave his hand, however, for somebody else’s hand was now wrapped around his, with an arm around his stomach to restrict movement.

They were pulling Cas back, and his struggle did nothing, Cas’ free hand weak against his side and unable to step forward out of the hold. Within seconds, the gentle scuffling of feet, tight grip, and soothing voice was overwhelmingly familiar.

‘Cas, what’s- what are you doing, buddy? C’mon, calm down,’ Dean whispered, voice reassuring. His voice was rough, and he must’ve just woken up. The thought lodged guilt in Cas’ stomach. ‘Put down the bottle, just- Just drop it, okay?’

And that’s when they stopped moving, and Cas didn’t even need any encouragement to loosen his grip, listen carefully, sliding underneath gaps and ridges.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and with that breath went the strength Cas had gotten from adrenaline. He had nothing to do, now; he couldn’t drink anymore, now that Dean was here, and he couldn’t be angry with Dean’s arms around him, either. 

‘Woah- hey, hey-’ Dean said, helping Cas shuffle over to the wall before promptly giving up, sliding down to the floor. Cas barely moved, landing with his head against Dean’s chest and legs stretched out in front of him, in between Dean’s. ‘When we told you to relax and get some rest, this- this isn’t what we meant, man.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Cas said with closed eyes, head turned into the fabric of Dean’s henley. He took a few deep breaths, settling himself, while breathing in the familiar and comforting scent that Dean’s clothes always carried. ‘You have to know that- Ishim and I, we fought together. He was my flight commander, and-’

‘You had to kill him, Cas. Don’t think for a second that it’s your fault.’ 

‘It’s not just  _ him _ ,’ Cas said, his voice quiet and cautious, hands clenching to fists. ‘How many angels have I killed for nothing? Balthazar-’

‘ _ You  _ didn’t kill Balthazar, Cas.’ Dean seemed to grip Cas a little tighter, pulling up his leg and bending it at the knee.’That wasn’t- You weren’t...you, when it happened.’

‘You can’t say that when I remember it perfectly,’ Cas frowned, vivid memories bouncing back and forth behind his eyes in a way they hadn’t done in years. ‘I remember holding my blade, every time. I remember every scream, every being falling to their knees-’

‘I can’t say anything about it, huh?’ Dean said, turning his head to look down at Cas, try and meet his eyes. ‘What about when I was a demon? I remember all the people I hurt, and killed. What about when Sam was soulless? All- All the people I tortured in Hell to get off the rack? What about then?’

Cas remained quiet. A small part of him knew Dean was right; a larger part tried to convince him that Dean was wrong. But he’d brought up Hell, torture on the rack, and that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

The names of his fallen brothers and sisters had long since been woven into his bones, but then there was Dean, and his smile, and the way his hands slid into Cas’ in either happiness or fear or a mix of the two. Dean’s clothes, and his car, and his way of convincing people that there is still good, that  _ they  _ are still good, when he may not even believe it about himself.

It was impossible to be angry at the world when sitting with a hopeful, sleepy Dean Winchester.

He bumped Cas’ thigh with his foot. ‘You can’t blame yourself for things you had no control over. That isn’t how stuff works, around here.’

Dean paused, and slowly, a smile crept along his features; subtle and gentle, but there. ‘By the way, you might not be a warrior, but you’re a damn better fighter than Ishim, than any of them.’

Cas furrowed his eyebrows. ‘But...you heard Ishim. I’ve gone-’

‘Not that kind of fighter,’ Dean began. He tipped his head down, his chin pressed into Cas’ hair. ‘Not the kind in an army, or a garrison, or anything. Just...The kind that doesn’t give up - that believes in hope, and redemption. You just keep going, and you find ways to do things, and you make sacrifices for the people you love.’

Dean pressed a smell kiss to Cas’ hair, eyes closing. 

‘That kind of fighter.’

**Author's Note:**

> join on tumblr to scream about sam winchester, domestic destiel, and all that jazz: dandymot.tumblr.com


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